Black, Two Sugars Please
by DREAMIRIS
Summary: Molly/Sherlock. High school AU. Maybe more. Never really tried anything except John/Sherlock, so this time, it's a little different. Rated T, but may change in the future but I can't guarantee anything
1. Chapter 1

**Ch. 1**

* * *

She knew that she was going to stick out like a sore thumb this time too.

Molly Hooper, with her long auburn hair tied in a perfect plait behind her and with strands which were coming loose tucked behind her ear neatly, was the perfect picture of a future morgue girl who was destined to do autopsies for the rest of her life. Her secondary school life had been boring, very, _very_ boring up till now except for those not—so—frequent occasions where she found an abnormality in her dissected frog's anatomy and those very frequent occasions where she was dismissed trying to point it out excitedly.

Or at least, it should prove to be boring, she thought. She _was_ going to stick out. All people who did not even know her would recognise her from her tell—tale appearance and call her the Molly "morgue" Hooper, a middle name she rather wasn't fond of. However, she was hoping that because this was Lower Sixth Form, she would at least meet some new people. New, _interesting_ people, perhaps.

There was one decent friend that she had who was going to attend Sixth Form with her and who had also been with her since prep, Mike Stamford. Mike didn't qualify as a best friend, not really. Molly Hooper did not have any best friends. She was the sort of girl who liked staying indoors, spending her Christmas curled up in an armchair in front of a cosy fire and writing away into her diary about her life and defining her goal and spending the next morning trying to remember them instead of simply looking into her diary.

She liked writing. She was fond of writing because writing was the one thing (Except her ambition to perform autopsies for the rest of her life) which was true to her, which was a part of her...

So anyway, back to Mike Stamford. Mike was a decent fellow, he always respected her and her intellect, and unlike his more sexist peers, he never shirked away when it came to asking for help in his homework from Molly. One could say that they were best friends, but Molly knew the difference. If time came, if everything went against her, she knew that Mike won't stand by her side. And neither would she.

So, that's how she knew that Mike wasn't her best friend. And she wasn't disappointed. She was perfectly happy, and she could turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to some names which she had been called during Year 7 and 8. It used to hurt her, but now it didn't. She had grown up, she had grown past that stage.

"Hey, Molly!" Mike's voice came from behind her as she got down from the bus, "How have you been?"

She turned to him and smiled, "Hey, I was just thinking about you," said she, and Mike looked surprised. A couple of boys behind him cackled up at the sight of Mike talking to her. He immediately looked apologetic, forgetting her initial sentence. She smiled sympathetically. She wasn't the one to be influenced by the impression her peers had of her, but she understood that not everyone was like her.

"It's okay," she said, trying not to make him feel uncomfortable. If anything, she felt incredibly lucky that she had a friend like Mike who still talked to her and still cared for her, "I'll see you in class, alright?"

He shrugged, and with an incoherent apology he walked away. Her smile dropped and she continued walking. A friendly face was always good, she told herself. And Mike was a sweetheart.

Walking into the school on the first day of the final two years of her life should've felt dramatic to her, like there should've been at least a band, or an orchestra to mark the beginning, to mark the moment her footfall crossed the threshold of the school entrance. She thought she would've felt a little more grown up, a little more responsible, like adulthood would come up to her and hit her right in the face like a virtual wave. She thought she would feel... _different_.

Story of her life. Her life was bland, like a painting with all its colours taken out and leaving the dull canvas. Maybe that was a good thing, she reasoned, that maybe now she would be able to fill it with colours.

She now knew she had been watching far too many "Chakra" and "Yoga" videos on YouTube.

Instead, walking into the school felt like she had surfaced from a long time time spent underwater, like this was now air and finally she could breathe. She didn't know why she was feeling this way, like the summer had smothered her. Everything had been perfectly normal. She had begun to study for her future, planning it ahead meticulously, every day, every hour, and in a few months, probably every minute.

So, when she found a group of fifth years in skank clothes looking at her like she was some sort of a misplaced mental home worker with daddy issues (which she wasn't, thank you very much), she found that she didn't mind. It was better to have a minute gone unplanned and spontaneous. Nevertheless, she did not smile back at them, knowing that she would come across as weird.

She spotted Mr. Lestrade near the ground floor staff room. Mr. Lestrade was a good teacher, she had heard from some of the seniors, and she looked forward to be taught by him. Behind him, there was Mrs. Donovan, another teacher. She was fond of Molly, very much so, and Molly was fond of her too, except for those occasions where she didn't answer her queries about certain things. _You'll learn it in higher classes_, she chanted everytime, and Molly sat back in her seat with a pout and a dejected expression. There weren't any higher classes left, but she knew better than to verbalise that.

"Hello, Molly," called Mrs. Donovan to her in a friendly manner, "How was your summer?"

"All right," she halted in front of the teacher, as she dodged tin lunch pails and stray elbows coming in her direction. For a moment, she was tempted to tell her the truth, but then Mrs. Donovan was a teacher and she thought that she wouldn't be comfortable if she started telling her about how her dad had recently lost his job and that he had taken to drink. She chose to tell her about what she had done in her last summer. "I spent it with my grandmother in Camden. How about yours?"

"You know, the usual," said she with a hollow laugh, "Getting a divorce, getting broke getting a divorce..."

Molly let out a laugh, only to understand that she wasn't joking, "Oh—oh no! I'm—I'm—I'm—sorry, I'm so sorry, I—I thought you were, you know, _joking_."

Mrs... or rather, Ms. Donovan now, or whatever her maiden name was, just stretched her lips across her cheeks insincerely, "See you around, then." Molly coughed in mortification. She probably looked like a fool there. She stood outside the door of her classroom and took deep breaths. She shouldn't let it affect herself. She shouldn't let it affect herself, she repeated it over and over in her mind.

When Molly entered class, she saw Mike sitting with a blond boy quite short for his age, but otherwise sturdily built. Even if she didn't know half the people there, and half the people didn't know her back, she decided to take her usual seat in the back benches. She never liked admitting it to herself, but she felt like she had an advantage over other people when she got to see others' heads, instead of others seeing hers. She just didn't like the idea of knowing that others could see her but she couldn't see them.

Beside her, in the next row, a head full of shaggy and unkempt dark brown curly hair lay resting on the arms of a lanky boy with his legs stretched to their longest. He looked like he had been thrown out of his house for cooking meth. Well, except for the starched and spotless white shirt. Molly's eyes narrowed and she decided to ignore him and the soft snores that came from him. Even though she hadn't seen his face, he seemed like the kind of boy who who was too sullen to talk to anyone properly.

To her delight, Mr. Lestrade arrived and bid everyone a cheerful hello, and then plunged straight into the most detailed and complex lecture about the pulmonary system that she had ever heard. Her head was buried deep in her notebook, her hand cramping with the rapid and furious note—taking after a long summer of rest and taking care of and watching her dad, and it wasn't until she came up for some air halfway through that she noticed the boy in the row beside her still sleeping. She squinted on him, focussing and taking the sight of him in. He didn't seem to _own_ a bookbag.

Molly wondered whether she should say something, because she had heard that Mr. Lestrade was quite the strict teacher when it came to making his students learn. For some incomprehensible reason, she felt like she really shouldn't interfere with his what looked like much needed sleep. And then she looked in front to see that she had missed a part about the bronchi. She snapped her head in the direction of the board and furiously took down her notes, looking up into her textbook for the missed portion whenever Mr. Lestrade was busy labelling a diagram.

When Mr. Lestrade finished his lecture, he asked them all a series of tricky questions, not just a review from the lecture but things that they really have to think about. The  
whole class was struggling, their brains clearly out of practice, though all Molly's studying over the holidays was paying off pretty well, as was of the blond boy sitting in the first bench with Mike. He seemed like a scholar. Maybe she could go and be friends with him.

Suddenly, Molly had the feeling that Mr. Lestrade had seen the way the boy beside her was sleeping openly in the classroom on the first day itself. With a sharp clear of throat, the teacher motioned to Molly with his eyes to wake him up. She poked him, but still there wasn't any response from his side. The entire class turned to look at her and her futile efforts at waking him up. But the boy was more stubborn than her own dad pissed on the couch. Not able to take it anymore, she opened her water bottle and poured it down his head. The entire class started laughing as the boy came to consciousness and looked at her with supreme annoyance.

"What did you do _that_ for?!" He demanded angrily, not caring that he was there in front of the teacher. Molly had seen such boys in movies. She did not know that such people existed in real world as well.

"I'm sorry," said she, returning to her seat, "You weren't waking up."

"And what about you—Sherlock Holmes, isn't it?" Lestrade said, crossing his arms across his chest and giving Sherlock a look that somehow contained all the elements of amusement, annoyance and impatience, "Have something to contribute?"

The boy, Sherlock, suppressed a yawn that had been bubbling up in him and scratched his head untidily, "What's the—uh—question?"

"Effects of a malfunctioning _conus arteriosus_ in frogs versus humans," he snapped, but Molly suspected that Sherlock did not seem to notice that. Instead he simply said, "Page number hundred and thirty five, column two, paragraph three. There you have it."

With that, he promptly went back to sleep, leaving Mr. Lestrade dumbfounded. Molly turned to page number 135, column 2, para 3, as did everyone in the class. It was sure there. The boy, Sherlock, did give a very misleading impression. He had _memorised _the textbook? She couldn't help but let a small smile creep up her face, even if he had thrown the answer right in the face of her decidedly favourite teacher.

Lestrade gave an uncomfortable cough, "Ah, well, thank you, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

When the class ended, Sherlock did not seem to get up. He was still sleeping. Molly thought that she should try and tell him to... go to his next class perhaps? She needed to do that, didn't she, as a human being? Although she wondered if poking Sherlock into wakefulness was a 'human' thing as well.

Nevertheless, she did poke him into wakefulness. She noticed that Sherlock's eyes were surrounded by black circles, his hair mussed and unkempt and he looked like he could lapse into a micronap anytime. Well, he looked like that before a pair of piercing steel—gray eyes narrowed as he took in her appearance with a Grand Canyon valley—deep crease between his eyebrows.

"Um... the bell rang," she offered.

"So?"

"Means you should get out of the class?"

His eyes narrowed further, "You aren't a teacher, why are you lecturing me?"

Because the next teacher surely would, wouldn't they, she resisted the urge to say anything like that, instead going with, "You look like you haven't slept in days."

Sherlock sat up straighter, "Unless that's an exaggeration that you're using for the phrase 'missing sleep for a few hours', I'd say that you've got it spot on."

She looked at this weird boy, weird but now she could see intelligence in his eyes and his broad pale forehead, "How many days?" She asked him instead.

"Two," he replied and she frowned.

"That's impossible. You would've been dead by now."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, now taking her water bottle peeking out of her bookbag without even asking her and washing his face there in the class itself, "Wrong. You need to rob yourself of sleep for eleven days, of approximately two hundred and sixty four hours, the statistics vary from person to person, that is if you don't lapse into a coma or a micronap, instead of the forty eight hour window you are suggesting."

Molly wanted to ask him if he really had been kicked out of a crystal meth—cooking gang (he might have been, if he did go on rapid-fire like that in front of them), but something about Sherlock's cool, nonchalant manner made her believe that it was a wrong idea. She had no idea why she was still talking to him. She knew the species that Sherlock belonged to, she had never met one of him before and neither was she fascinated by that.

Well, she wouldn't have been if Sherlock hadn't hit so many hammers right on her head about facts and information that basically sounded like Latin to her.

"How far have you gone?" She asked him, "In terms of sleep—deprived days, I mean?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, and suddenly jumped to life when Mr. Lestrade almost yelled at them, "Very well, Mr. Holmes, it certainly was an effort to stay awake in the glance, but not when you've got a girl _talking_ to you!"

Molly blushed, but whether it was because of the way Lestrade had said 'talking', or whether it was because of what he had pointed out, she had no idea. To her horror, Sherlock answered him back, "Well, you'll manage one too, Lestrade if you don't look like you're trying hard and if you tear that price tag off your shirt."

She cast a glance at Mr. Lestrade, who had spun around to see if there was any price tag. It turned out that Sherlock was merely pulling his leg. Molly smiled at that. She didn't know why, but she felt it her obligation to follow Sherlock on his way out, maybe to hear how many sleep—deprived days this eccentric boy had spent till now. For some reason, Sherlock... he was different, like God had made her wish come true. She had asked for someone interesting, and here he was, in flesh and bone. For some reason, her brain kept telling her to back off, maybe because she couldn't take the disappointment that if she talked to Sherlock for long enough, he might turn out to be ordinary after all, and then she'd have to go back to her pissed dad and her second—hand books.

Suddenly, Sherlock turned around and smirked at her, "Three."

Molly's brain struggled to keep up, "What?"

"I can stay awake for seventy two hours continuously, but this time, I think I'll go off to sleep again... Unless you..." he eyed her coffee flask cautiously and expectantly. She kept it with herself just in case. She had pretty sleepless nights trying to get her dad sorted out, and she decided that it would be better if she just...

"You want _my _coffee? For your... experiment?"

"If you could call it that," he smirked, speaking in a low voice which rumbled pleasantly even amongst the din that surrounded them, and she felt, for some very, _very_ obtuse reason millions of jagged—edged butterflies invading her tummy, "but at any rate, was it over the summer, or before that, or perhaps both...?" he trailed off.

The butterflies in her stomach were replaced by a heavy thud, like she had collapsed to the floor in a heap of skin and bones even though she was still standing in her place, rooted to her spot as Sherlock continued to scrutinise her. There were only two things that had happened over the summer and right before that, and she had no idea how Sherlock knew that, because she hadn't told anybody that. They were very hurtful, and as soon as that introspective faraway look was lost on him, she regained herself from the earlier shock and tried to look unaffected.

"Where's your bookbag?" She inquired instead, and was fairly surprised when Sherlock opened his mouth to answer. Maybe he found her worth his time, because he seemed like this sort of all—important guy who never _deigned_ to talk to anyone. And then she remembered that he hadn't even asked her her name, and she was aware of a stab of reluctance about handing over her coffee flask to a complete albeit weirdly charming stranger.

"Home," he replied, causing all her thoughts to come to a skidding halt, like a big red stop sign had been imposed.

"That's obvious... I mean, you usually bring your bookbag to school, don't you?"

He gave her a weird look, and Molly decided that ti would be best if she just got over with it. Sherlock had clearly not understood anything. Forgetting everything, she simply handed him the coffee mug, "By lunch, I need it back," her voice hushed and almost reverent. She had no idea why she was doing this, how Sherlock could be so compelling—

"If you say so, Molly," said he, and sauntered out of there. It took her a few seconds to realise what had happened.

How did _he _know her name?

She felt oddly light, like she had been trying to push herself underwater only to feel the water buoying her upwards, not allowing her to drown. It felt like gravity wasn't enough to hold her in place, and everything else appeared blurred in contrast to the sharpness of the corner into which Sherlock had just turned and walked away.

He was brilliant, to put it in the most simplest of ways. He was _different._

Molly only wondered if being exposed to uncharacteristic, eccentric brilliance was supposed to feel that way.

* * *

**Should I continue this? Just an idea... Review?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Ch. 2**

* * *

The second time Molly thought of Sherlock Holmes that day—or rather met him—was during recess.

Recess time was always bad for her. When she arrived in the cafeteria, she looked around at the various tables, with girls and boys in them, chatting, taking selfies or talking about disgusting horny stuff. Most of the tables were occupied and Molly felt like everyone in the cafeteria was suddenly aware of her presence and trying to actively ignore it. She didn't know why she felt so paranoid at times, maybe it stemmed from the thought that her drunk dad used to say frankly hurtful things to her that she tried to shut away.

And sometimes, she thought, that maybe, just maybe, there was truth in those words.

Maybe that's why her mum had left her all alone, to set out to conquer the world and let Molly deal with her alcoholic father.

She felt like the entire batch of students present there were ready to bolt if she approached them with the slightest look in their direction. And it was all so normal, so predictable, so much that she didn't know whether she was pitying herself more or the utter normalcy of her routine.

Probably the latter. Wishfully at least.

So, maybe it was a good thing that most of the people didn't know her.

But sometimes, even if she kept telling herself that she didn't need anyone, it did get terribly lonely. She secretly wished that there was someone to share her lunch with, someone she could have at her side so that she wouldn't feel the accusing glares from the other kids, some saying _Why's she all alone_? or something like _Is no one supposed to sit with her or something_? No matter what she kept telling herself that she was an adult (not technically, but yeah, in a sense she was. Mentally) and that she could deal with everything on her own, sometimes she really couldn't.

She spotted Mike Stamford sitting with the same blond boy who had answered many questions in Mr. Lestrade's class, and she contemplated for a moment whether to sit down with them. She thought that maybe Mike wouldn't like it. He had his guy friends with him, and she really didn't know how they would react to Molly "morgue" Hooper.

It struck her for one second that even if half the people didn't know each other, they were still sitting together. She was the only one standing out alone. She always believed that it was because of some misfortune during middle school that made her an outcast and that as soon as she touched high school, maybe she would be accepted because people won't be judgmental about her at first sight and that she'd be careful about misfortunes. Now, even during her first day, she was alone. She maybe gave off some vibes of _leave me alone_ or something.

She remembered that she had grown past that stage, the constant need for acceptance borne out of insecurity during teen years. She was almost an adult. Well no, she was fifteen. But she would be, after another some years, she thought with a sigh.

Molly realised that she was probably looking a bit odd standing there all by herself. Probably bordering on as odd as a three pound bill being found fluttering out of the Bank of England. She picked at her long hair and found a chewing gum stuck in it, to her disgust. A couple of girls nearby giggled at the sight of Molly "morgue" Hooper trying to get rid of a chewing gum from her hair, even took a photo of it, muttering something along the lines of "Instagram" and "Facebook". Molly sighed miserably. She could handle this. They were immature. She was mature and grown-up and—

Or maybe, she couldn't.

Molly turned and walked away. No matter what she tried to always pretend to herself, when she looked in the mirror, she hated her hair. It was long, auburn, didn't have the pleasing texture to it. When she touched it, she felt like she was running her fingers through a broomstick. And the colour was weird. Once she had tried to dye it blonde, thinking that blonde hair always looked good, no matter on who, and she had to sit at home for the whole week for the awful colour to wear off.

Maybe she could sneak out of school through the back gate, get some lunch at the diner just outside the perimeter of St. Bart's secondary instead of sitting through recess in the cafeteria? She had some money, she kept some extra as a caution sort of thing, in case she wasn't able to take the bus, she could always take a taxi even if it was really expensive. She was wearing a skirt, but she could jump over when no one was watching.

That was almost impossible. There would be someone watching. People in the diner would see. People driving past would see. Kids in gym class would see. And what if she fell? That would be so embarrassing, not to mention she would have to wash her clothes. She didn't like the public laundry machines, and the washing machine in her house had been beaten to death (well, not death, maybe to non-function) by her drunk dad.

She won't fall, she thought as she unthinkingly made her way to the back gate of school. This was also against the rules of school. She couldn't be seen sneaking out. She had a reputation of being a good girl who followed rules to the letter. The principal, her teachers, everyone saw her as a decent girl of Audrey Hepburn's generation. If she was found out trying to sneak out of the school, what would her teachers say? They'd be so disappointed with her. They might never trust her again.

And the last thing she needed was her pissed dad being called to school to "discipline the young lady".

Irrelevant, she decided. People's opinions didn't matter to her, she chanted to herself, as if the words could make her believe.

Nevertheless, she _was _wearing a skirt. What if it got torn? What if she had to spend her day in school wearing a torn skirt? She had already had a lunchroom disaster. She couldn't take a wardrobe malfunction on top of it. Unthinkingly, she walked to the school grounds, avoiding the group of sixth formers getting high behind a tree. She patted her auburn hair self-consciously. She was really hungry.

The back gate was in sight now. Not very tall, but she had to climb and jump over it. Plus, it had spiky rusted rods sticking out of the metallic structure. One slip, and it could cut through her while he attempted to climb over it, cause tetanus, bleeding, even death if not treated properly. If only she had someone to help her. She wished she could've asked. . . oh, no. She really couldn't allow a boy to help her.

She picked at her bookbag, sighing nervously and looked behind herself. There was no one, it was still recess but at a corner far from her, she could see football jocks. She looked away. She wasn't going to ask _them_ to help her climb over. And even if she asked them to, they would cast an eye at her and make some excuse, or push some retard or pervert over in her direction, who might try and peep under her skirt.

She felt uncomfortable. And hungry.

And that's when she saw Sherlock Holmes coming out from behind the tree where some addicts were getting high. She _knew_ that he would be _that_ kind of guy. The one who preferred to stick crack up their nostrils instead of the others who loved making out with the newest girl. She was generally never wrong when it came to judging and evaluating people. Part of being an outcast was that you got a remarkable amount of time to observe and learn others' behaviours and emotions.

Still, he looked surprisingly not-high. He looked sober. But he did have a white packet sticking out of his jeans pocket. He had drugs or something of that sort, but he didn't choose to take it, whereas he clearly looked like a meth-head. That was a really admirable display of self-restraint from an addict, Molly thought.

Of course, he was an addict. Molly sometimes wondered what the ecstasy was, what a chemical could induce in the brain, and why it fell prey to it over and over again and not form some sort of natural resistance against it unlike its natural reaction against other chemicals if they were used repeatedly over and over again.

Then she recalled that he had borrowed her coffee flask for his sleepless experiment. But he didn't have a bookbag. And he didn't have her coffee flask. What the hell had he done with it? She had trusted him with it!

Somehow, anger flared up in her, and she wasn't sure why. Being angry and taking it out on someone else was completely childish. And she was adult, and it was contradicting. It was different, from the first time she had seen him. That time, she had felt overwhelmed with brilliance, eccentricity, something _new_. Something that wasn't her pissed dad who vowed every morning that he would join Alcoholics Anonymous and forgot all about it by night.

Something awesome.

Now she felt angry. He should've been more responsible! Molly hated irresponsible people. And she didn't have money to buy herself a new coffee flask.

Before she knew it, Sherlock Holmes had spotted her and he stuffed the coke deeper into his pocket, but it was clear from his face that he had seen that Molly _knew._ She didn't give a damn about whether he liked drugs or whatever (well, she did give a damn about someone doing drugs because it wasn't a good thing and she was a little social worker); she wanted her bloody coffee flask back.

"Hey!" She called. Sherlock Holmes' footsteps quickened, away from her. She filled her lungs with more oxygen than it could fit them and yelled, a tiny squeak.

"HEY!"

That seemed to bring a hitch in Sherlock Holmes' walking/hurrying-away-like-Cinderella. Molly felt a little sheepish of her own outburst, "Sorry, I—I didn't really mean to—shout."

Sherlock Holmes didn't approach her, didn't do anything, just stood there, watching her, fox-like-furtive silver eyes assessing whether she was going to say anything about the drugs. Well, she wasn't. She wasn't a twelve year old who was going to be scared that she had seen drugs and then go and confess to the Father and to the Lord about it. . . that reminded her, it had been almost two weeks since her last confession.

As she gazed at the boy, he didn't seem the same eccentric, brilliant, one-of-a-kind guy she had met in Mr. Lestrade's class. She knew this was going to happen, damn! A second meeting and Sherlock Holmes was proving to be an utterly unoriginal creation on God. He was just another teenager with drug problems to soothe himself and his drug habits. Her stomach gave a swooping sensation. The one thing that had seemed out-of-the-ordinary had seemed to be ordinary after all. She'd have to go back to her bland life. Again.

She shook herself inwardly. Not her agenda right now.

"I wasn't getting high!" Sherlock all but pleaded, and Molly backed away a little. She knew how weird and touchy-feely meth-heads could sometimes be. "I'm sober!"

"Oh no, don't worry," she shrugged and wondered why she was being all submissive when she was supposed to be anything but that, "I—I—erm. . . need my coffee flask back. That's if you're done—with it, you know—erm. . ."

Despite the lack of change in his expression, Sherlock visibly relaxed, "Sorry what?"

Her stomach gave another swooping sensation. Had he forgotten her already? "You—erm—took my coffee—for an experiment—or something?"

Sherlock stared at her like a lost puppy, blinking innocently. "Oh—I think you're taking me for someone else."

She frowned and narrowed her eyes. No, this guy was the one who could spend three whole days without sleeping. The one who had pointed out the answer to Mr. Lestrade in the textbook rather than bothering to chant it back, The One who had taken her coffee and her coffee flask and knew her name even if she hadn't told him. The one who somehow knew that her father had lost his job and taken to drink over the summer and that her mother her left them before that like he was an MI6 spy or something.

"You're—not Sherlock Holmes?"

Of course, he was Sherlock Holmes.

"No, I'm not Sherlock Holmes," the boy shook his head. Molly felt frustrated. She was already hungry and she was pretty sure that he was lying, but he didn't look like he was lying.

"Are you sure you're not high?" She asked softly, and the boy rolled his eyes. She felt a bit intimidated, a bit too overwhelmed by him.

"Look, just leave me alone, woman!" He snapped, and then his voice became lower, "and don't tell anyone what you saw."

"Okay, but then, you'll have to do something for me."

"What?"

"Find me Sherlock Holmes. The bastard has taken my coffee flask and not returned it to me yet."

She noticed a subtle clenching of fists as she called him a bastard, and the boy gave in.

"Fine, I _was_ lying," he deflated. "I _am_ Sherlock Holmes. And I lost your goddamned coffee flask. I'll buy you another one since you can't live without it. Happy?"

Molly wanted to give him her darkest scowl. He was _proclaiming_ that he had lost her coffee flask as if it was once-in-a-lifetime achievement and then being a complete arse about it. How could he?

"It's not buying me another one, Sherlock—can I call you Sherlock?" She squeaked. She hated this unconscious part to her which wanted to be nice and not-rude to everyone in the world.

"Whatever suits you. . . at any rate, what were _you_ doing here?" He narrowed his eyes, and Molly felt a flush of colour on her cheeks. Why, she didn't know that.

Sherlock Holmes lowered his gaze at her, silver eyes penetrating her like laser into steel. "You didn't come here for coke, you're clutching the money in your fist very tightly. You're unwilling to part with it. Junkies love drugs more than money. But you're near the back gate too," he eyed the street beyond that.

"You're not going to run away from school, you're clearly too worried about your coffee flask to do that. Means you need something on the street. . . Hmm. . . stationery, maybe you forgot to get something for class. . . graphs or A4 sheets maybe? But it's almost ten minutes left for recess to get over and you haven't eaten anything. . . you're going out for lunch, maybe you find the cafeteria food substandard. . . unlikely, you're already poor. Maybe have an allergic reaction to it or maybe you had an embarrassing moment in the cafeteria, that's why you prefer the diner across."

Molly's breath stuck in her throat as she lowered her gaze, feeling extremely uncomfortable. True, they weren't rich, they were quite poor, but he didn't have to point that out, did he? Was that all he had, insulting and intimidating her so that she didn't say anything to the principal?

"That—was. . ." she swallowed back the lump in her throat, not meeting Sherlock Holmes' gaze. "You shouldn't say things like that."

He looked taken aback. "Why not?"

"People get hurt, if you say things like _you're already poor_ to their face." She avoided his eyes. It wasn't a sort of conversation she liked.

"But you _are_ poor." Sherlock pointed out, and Molly crossed her arms defensively.

She gave up. "Okay, will you just—buy me a new coffee flask?"

Sherlock watched her and then out of the blue, "Okay, I'll give it to you tomorrow." Molly blinked confusedly.

"But how can I trust you?" She asked, "I mean, you were lying to me that you weren't Sherlock Holmes to escape the blame. How do I know. . . actually, you know what, you can get one for me _now_."

But the words were out of her mouth before she had time to ponder over them. Going out of the school, with a boy, with a junkie. Not good at all. What if someone saw? What if somehow the principal or her teachers came to know of it? They'd be so disappointed with her, and Molly would feel like hiding in a closet until the world ended. What if one of her dad's friends saw her and told her dad about it? He got mad even if Molly talked to her own cousin brother, let alone someone like Sherlock Holmes. He might stop sending her to school at all.

"What, now?" Sherlock asked her helplessly, looking at her with an expression of alarm, "_Shopping_?"

"Not _shopping_," she clarified, trying her best to not lose her composure, "It's just buying a flask, no big deal. Just ten minutes."

"Tedious," he declared, slouching against a tree. Molly narrowed her eyes. If buying a flask was tedious to Sherlock, he had been making her a false promise.

"But you'll forget it later," she protested feebly. Sherlock groaned inaudibly.

"Anything else but boring things," he insisted, and then eyed the street. "Okay, I'll pay for your lunch instead," he shrugged. Molly's eyes widened.

"Sorry _what_?"

That was even more disastrous. Now, if she'd be seen with a boy outside school _during_ school hours, it'd look like they were on a date. During school hours. If any of her father's friends saw her talking to a boy, she really didn't know what he'd do.

"I'll help you out of that gate and pay for your lunch." Sherlock repeated nonchalantly. Molly didn't know what to say or what to think. He was going to _pay_? Yes, she didn't have money to buy a flask for herself because she tried her best to save every penny from her dad for her uni tuition fund.

"It's not about paying for things, Sherlock," she sighed. "It's about responsibility. Even if I didn't know you, I trusted you when I gave you that flask. You've broken it. The trust—I mean, not the flask—well, I don't know if you broke it too."

This seemed to sting Sherlock, for his features softened and the corner of his lip twitched, "Oh, I. . . apologize. I didn't—realise you looked at it—that way. But shopping is still tedious. I said I'll pay for you, it's the same, isn't it?"

No, it isn't, Molly wanted to tell him, but knew better than to verbalise that. "Okay, erm—anyway, I need to get over this gate, so," she glanced at Sherlock. She wasn't going to let him help, was she? He lied, was a junkie and repeatedly called her 'poor'. That in itself was bad enough for her.

"Oh, you need help? Okay," Sherlock shrugged and began walking, not registering Molly's absence beside him. Molly felt even more anxious and she unconsciously smoothed down her skirt to her now wobbly knees. Why did she have to wear a skirt today, of all days? What if Sherlock tried to peek into her skirt when he lifted her and tried to help her across?

"Sherlock, wait!" She called out feebly and rushed after the lanky teen, searching for any excuse to abort this. She'd rather stay hungry and sans coffee than this.

He turned around, "Yeah?"

"Erm. . . I'm not—" she looked away, not wanting to look into Sherlock's ever-observing eyes, "I don't think you'll be able to help me."

Sherlock looked—affronted, actually, like Molly had just insulted his strength, which she probably had. "Of course, I can! I'm good at this!"

"And it's also illegal—on, no—I didn't mean illegal—not illegal per se, as in—not in the rules to get out of school before it got over."

Sherlock smirked a little. "No one will care if you got out and in. And trust me, I can do this," he sank to his knees near the gate, as if waiting for her to put her wait on him. Molly really didn't want his help now. She just needed a hand, not to put her entire weight on Sherlock.

"Sherlock, seriously. I—I don't think you—you'll be able t-to take my weight."

Sherlock snapped her neck towards her too quickly for the action to look normal. "What?"

Molly frowned. "What what?"

He rolled his eyes. "I wasn't talking about lifting you," he took out a pin from his pocket and set down to pick the lock on the back gate.

"I'm good at picking locks," he said, as the rusted hinges of the lock gave away with a distinct click. Molly reeled backwards in embarrassment. She had never ever felt more stupid in her entire life. Here was a guy who she thought, expected to lift her and help her across the gate. Now she had made a fool out of herself in front of the one guy who was anything apart from what she had seen throughout her fifteen year old life.

But that embarrassment was replaced by a certain feeling of high when she saw Sherlock Holmes picking a lock. She felt like she had suddenly been teleported miles away and that now, there was only air where she had been previously standing. Breathing was becoming difficult, every sound white noise compared to the throbbing of her heart in her ears. All thoughts reduced to a messy jumbled heap except one.

He could pick locks!

"After you," Sherlock stood up and opened the creaking gate for her, "they really need to oil the hinges."

"And let students escape, right!" Molly remarked, and Sherlock gave her a lopsided smirk. Molly couldn't believe it. She was outside school. During school hours. This was such an act of indiscipline. She was breaking school rules on the first day with a boy she barely knew. Her heart hammered in her chest as she stepped on the dusty tarmac of the street and felt the wind blow in her face, like the school was the Selfish Giant's garden.

"Speaking of illegal," Sherlock began, a slight uncharacteristic twinkle to his eyes as he dug into his pocket for his wallet, "did you know that it is illegal to die in the Houses of the Parliament?"

Molly stared at him in amazement, "Really?"

She had never felt like this. She had never had a best friend. Well, BFFs were a thing of the past, but then she realised that somehow, girls didn't like her enough to want to be friends with her. It would be one day, two days and then any new girl she thought might be her friend would run away. Boys. . . only Mike Stamford talked to her, and that too because she was intelligent and could help him with homework.

And now, a guy was willingly talking to her. A brilliant, daring, untouchable guy. That had not happened since ninth year.

"Yes," Sherlock exhaled a breath, "British Law is as ludicrous as anything can be. . . Well then. Here you go, fifty," he took out a fifty note out of his wallet and extended it to her, "keep the change."

And the happy feeling crumbled away like sawdust.

"What?" She looked at him tensely. Now that she was out of the school, she found out that she couldn't be alone. She felt inexplicably nervous at the thought of being alone. All the adulthood talk went right out of the window, "You—you said you were going—" a gulp, "—to pay for me."

"And I _am_ paying for you." He clarified patiently.

"I thought you were going to be sitting—with me. In case I got caught—"

"You won't," he reassured her, to zero effect, "trust me."

". . . Please?"

He exhaled a sigh, and Molly felt a little guilty for making him sit with him against his wishes. ". . . Fine, but only in the name of science."

"What?"

"You gave me coffee for my experiment. It's only fair that I return the favour."

Nevertheless, he waved a bewildered Molly towards the other end of the street. Molly decided that she liked that reasoning; but she did insist that they cross over the zebra crossing at which Sherlock only rolled his eyes and walked on without a care in the world.

It was afternoon time, and the diner was mostly empty and sort of dimly lit with artificial light, with vague jazz music playing. The barkeeper yawned as she entered with Sherlock. Molly had always passed it by, never really entered it, and it was sort of exciting to go in there for the first time, as childish as that sounded. The air-conditioning was alright, she thought as she tried to keep her distance from Sherlock, so that they didn't come across as something that even remotely resembled a couple. It was good that the diner didn't have windows that spilled light in. Less chance for anyone from outside to see her with a boy sitting in a darkened place.

Sherlock Holmes looked slouching as he dragged himself over to a booth and fell down on it, yawning slightly, "That makes it fifty," a huge yawn, "four hours, thirty five minutes and," he glanced at his watch, "nineteen seconds at two fifteen and thirty five seconds today."

Molly slipped into the booth, into the seat in front of him, avoiding his long sprawled legs as she made herself comfortable in the seat across him. He looked. . . proud. Well, pride wasn't entirely obvious in him, but the glow in his eyes did say that he was. Proud of himself.

"Your. . . sleepless hours?" She enquired non-judgmental as she scanned the menu for something that would be affordable and yet be enough for her growling stomach, and at the same time, about the amount of the price of her precious coffee flask. She didn't know what to make of this boy. One moment he was an addict trying to hide a packet of coke and being a jerk about it, the next moment he was chanting "in the name of science" in everything that he did.

"Precisely. If it wasn't for you, I'd never even have reached fifty."

Molly paused to peer at him over the top of the menu. She wondered if that was a vague thank you of sorts. She chose not to say anything. The waitress arrived, a healthy woman with too much lipstick, "What can I get for you, love?"

"Just coffee for me, thanks," Sherlock replied dismissively as he lunged across his seat comfortably, "black, two sugars please."

She noted it down in her little notepad, "Anything else?"

"Did I say anything else?" Sherlock drawled, "when I stop talking, it's your cue to ask the other person. Obviously."

Molly looked at the waitress from under lowered eyelashes. She looked a little miffed. "Alright. What can I get for _you_?"

"Er. . . just some tomato pasta."

"Okay, anything—" she stopped in her tracks as she eyed Sherlock's nonchalant figure. "I know, you don't want anything else."

Molly had a feeling that she won't be welcomed warmly into the place the next time she came in. "And a diet Coke too, thanks."

She beamed at the waitress, who went back to chewing the gum. Molly sighed inwardly and turned to Sherlock. She wanted to tell him that he was rude with her, but then she thought that it won't be the most pleasant thing to talk about, and she frankly didn't dare telling him that. She felt something akin to awe when she saw him.

He wasn't ordinary, no way. Whatever stupid doubts about Sherlock Holmes being disappointing had crept inside her mind were all misgivings. Sherlock kept staring at something outside through the tinted windows, at the school building, and Molly kept alternating between watching his gaze and watching him. The silence and awkwardness was disconcerting, to say the least.

She didn't know what to say. She wondered if Sherlock was expecting her to start a conversation, but then he was doing her and science a favour by sitting with her, so she really should let him have his way.

Then she remembered that he hadn't ordered anything but coffee, which now lay condensing in front of him, and he, oblivious to it. She found a topic to talk about.

"Your coffee is getting cold," she pointed out. He didn't respond. She debated whether to reach out and shake him, but somehow she felt like he might bite back if she did that.

"Sherlock?" She resorted to calling his name, deciding that she liked the unusual name. Even his name was unusual, she thought wistfully. She looked at her watch. The sixth period had begun, and she was missing it with a guy who didn't talk.

"I'm bored," he uttered, his breath forming haze against the glass. Molly wasn't sure what to say to that.

"Erm. . . aren't you going to eat anything?" She asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"When I eat, all the blood in my body goes to my stomach. To be precise, my small intestine, to absorb nutrition via blood vessels in the villi, or in that case, deserting my brain in the time of need. So I prefer not to eat unless absolutely necessary. Coffee, I intake, because it contains caffeine, which is a stimulant and improves attention and concentration when taken in moderate amounts."

Molly blinked twice. Well, it did make sense. She'd like to try that, before examinations maybe.

The pasta arrived and she tucked in, glancing at Sherlock occasionally, but she was too hungry to think about his not-eating advice. The pasta tasted like perfection in her mouth. She was so hungry she could eat more than a plate, but then she decided that she shouldn't. What would Sherlock— who was an advocate of starvation—think of her if she overate? Sherlock paid the bill and they strode out, with Molly feeling extremely awkward, wondering whether she should thank him for the meal, but then it wasn't necessary because he was in fact reimbursing for her flask.

But she thought she needed to say something at least.

"Erm. . . it's going to strike seventh period any minute," she said, looking up at him who looked distracted as always.

"Hm, what? Oh, yes," he checked his watch. "What is it now?"

"Chemistry. Mrs. Donovan's class. . . or rather Ms. whatever-her-maiden-name-is—oh no," she reeled backwards, "I—I shouldn't have told you—please don't tell anyone—please, oh-no—"

But Sherlock only smirked, "I already know."

Her heart slowed down at his exclamation. He knew. Somehow. Thank God.

She watched Sherlock get down to work at those locks again. He had locked the door back because Sherlock wasn't fond of leaving loose threads and wanted to make sure nobody found out that they had gone out. As Molly watched him, she was visited by a powerful desire to touch him. Would he be like a normal human being, after being so different from one? Were those curls really just plain human hair?

She swallowed back those thoughts as he worked the gate open and slipped inside smoothly and she followed him. It was awe, she could tell. Nothing else. It wasn't like she could have or look for anything with him. She was an adult, she thought as she stepped inside the boundary of the school. She wasn't a twelve year old who could fall in and out of such flings in half-a-second. Yes, he was charming in an eccentric but not-unlikeable way but that was no reason. Not strong enough.

Plus, there wasn't any time to be in a relationship. Sixth Form had a vast syllabus and there was her cat and her pissed dad to take care of, she thought as she walked into school building with him, and possibly into the class as well. She needed more than three A-Levels.

Yet, as she walked, trying to keep up with Sherlock's ridiculously long strides, she fooled herself into thinking that she wouldn't want to see him again. He had made her feel every sort of thing within the few hours that they met: embarrassment, frustration, elated, confused, to name a few. Even after she thought about her responses to him, somehow she ended mixing and forgetting them completely.

Sherlock slipped into the class they were meant to go to, and Molly followed after an amount of time. She pretended not to care about Sherlock or his presence anymore as she sat on the second last bench this time. Even if she knew that he won't watch her furtively because she probably meant nothing to him, it didn't mean that she couldn't fool herself into thinking about the possibility that he might.

* * *

**Should I continue this? Review?**


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